The heavy rain pounded the streets of New York, its relentless rhythm echoing in the distance as Isabella Carter stepped onto the slick pavement. The cold night air cut through her thin coat, and every droplet that splashed against her face felt like a reminder of the turmoil in her heart. Tonight, the world she once knew was crumbling—her father's company, Carter Holdings, had been drowning in debt ever since her stepmother Vivian's reckless spending left them vulnerable. And now, with creditors knocking at the door and her family's legacy at stake, Isabella had no choice but to accept a fate that felt more like a sentence than salvation.
She approached the towering glass building of Kingston Enterprises with trepidation. Every step she took was weighted with desperation and the lingering taste of betrayal. Inside, the opulence was in stark contrast to the despair churning within her. Golden chandeliers, polished marble floors, and an air of cold efficiency greeted her as she made her way through the lobby. A receptionist, barely sparing her a glance, directed her to the top floor—where the lion’s den awaited. When the elevator doors slid open, Isabella found herself in a lavish private suite. At the far end of the room stood a man whose presence seemed to command the very air around him. Dressed in a custom-tailored suit that accentuated his broad shoulders and athletic frame, Alexander Kingston exuded power. His piercing blue eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto hers as if he were assessing an asset rather than a person. "Isabella Carter," he said, his voice deep and measured—a sound that both intrigued and intimidated her. "I trust you've come prepared." Her throat tightened. The rumors about him had been as relentless as the storm outside: a ruthless billionaire, a man who saw relationships as mere transactions and who never allowed sentiment to cloud his judgment. Yet here she was, about to sign away her future. She took a steadying breath and stepped forward, her eyes fixed on his. "I have," she replied, her voice steadier than she felt. Alexander gestured toward a gleaming mahogany table where a stack of papers lay waiting. "These are the terms. You will be my wife for one year—no more, no less. In exchange, I will settle all the debts of Carter Holdings." The words echoed in her mind. A year. A mere twelve months to preserve what was left of her family’s honor and legacy. But at what cost? Isabella's thoughts churned as she recalled the events that led her here. Her father had passed away years ago, leaving Carter Holdings vulnerable. Vivian, her stepmother, had gambled away every last resource in reckless spending. When the creditors came knocking, Vivian had found a so-called solution: sell Isabella to the highest bidder. And that bidder had been none other than Alexander Kingston. The bitter irony stung. Alexander was the man who should have married her stepsister, Charlotte. But Charlotte—her supposed savior and the golden child—had vanished weeks before the wedding, fleeing with her secret lover. Rather than face the humiliation of a broken engagement, Vivian had offered Isabella in Charlotte’s place. Isabella had never felt more betrayed or expendable. Alexander's eyes were as hard as the marble around them as he continued, "You must understand—this is not a union of love. It is a business transaction. Your signature today ensures that Carter Holdings is saved from ruin. In return, you will become Mrs. Kingston for one year. After that, you are free to leave with your family’s legacy intact." Her hands trembled as she reached for the pen. Every fiber of her being screamed against it, yet the desperate need to save her family silenced her protest. With a deep, shuddering breath, she pressed the pen to the paper and signed. The ink dried quickly, sealing her fate. Isabella Carter-Kingston. Alexander observed her every move with a cold, appraising gaze. When the signature was complete, he nodded once, curtly. "Good. Now, get some rest. Your new life begins tomorrow." Without another word, he rose and walked toward the door, leaving Isabella alone with her swirling thoughts and the echo of his parting footsteps. In that moment, she realized the true weight of her decision: she had just married a man who would never trust her, who saw her not as a partner but as a tool—a pawn to further his ambitions. --- The Wedding: A Cold and Hollow Affair Three days later, under a sky heavy with lingering clouds, Isabella found herself standing before a grand chapel on the grounds of the Kingston estate. The interior was awash in a soft, golden light from crystal chandeliers, but the atmosphere was anything but warm. Every guest in attendance looked on with thinly veiled curiosity, aware that this union was less about romance and more about a high-stakes business arrangement. Isabella’s heart pounded as she took her place beside Alexander. The officiant’s words blurred into the background as she focused on the man beside her—a man whose expression was as unreadable as a marble statue. When the moment for vows arrived, Alexander’s voice was steady and devoid of any emotion. "I do," he declared, without pause or hesitation. Isabella’s response was equally perfunctory. "I do." A brief, perfunctory kiss followed—one that was more symbolic than sincere—and the small, private ceremony ended as quickly as it had begun. The guests applauded politely, and Isabella was left to grapple with the stark reality: she was now Mrs. Kingston. Not out of love, but out of necessity. --- After the Wedding: A New World of Isolation The Kingston mansion was a fortress of opulence and cold luxury. As Isabella was escorted through its grand corridors, every detail reminded her that she was now a part of a world she neither chose nor belonged to. The halls were silent except for the distant hum of meticulously maintained machinery and the soft murmur of staff moving about. It was a world governed by strict rules, rigid expectations, and an unspoken code of conduct. "Your room is down the hall—third door on the right," Alexander informed her, his tone matter-of-fact as he led her through the labyrinthine interior. His presence was overwhelming, and even as he spoke, she felt as though his eyes were still dissecting her every move. "Are we sharing a room?" she dared to ask. Alexander’s lips twisted into a slight smirk. "This isn’t a marriage of love, Isabella. It’s a business arrangement. You will have your own space." The words stung more than she expected. As she reached the door to her new room—a lavish space filled with expensive furnishings and an unsettling stillness—she hesitated. “Alexander…” she called softly. He paused, turning his head just enough for her to see a flicker of something in his eyes—perhaps curiosity or regret. "Yes?" She took a deep breath. "What happens when the contract ends?" His jaw tightened. "Then you walk away. With your family’s company intact." His tone was cold, almost dismissive, as if the idea of their union dissolving was merely a business transaction. Isabella closed the door behind her and leaned against it, the reality of her situation pressing in on her like the weight of a thousand debts. She was trapped in a gilded cage—a marriage forged out of necessity and sacrifice, devoid of passion or promise. Yet beneath the numb acceptance, a storm of anger and sorrow brewed within her. How could her family’s legacy be secured by sacrificing her happiness? That night, as Isabella lay in a bed too large and too empty to offer any comfort, the silence was punctuated only by her racing thoughts. She traced the wedding ring on her finger, each rotation a reminder of the contract that bound her. She recalled her father’s untimely death and the ruthless decisions that followed—how Vivian, her stepmother, had chosen her over Charlotte, the one who should have been the bride. The betrayal stung like a fresh wound. Her tears fell silently in the darkness as she wondered what kind of future lay ahead in the cold embrace of a man she barely knew—a man who had claimed her as his own with a signature. In that moment, Isabella vowed that she would survive, no matter the cost. Even if it meant reclaiming her life from the man who now owned her destiny. --- The Dawn of a New Life In the early hours of the following morning, before the rest of the world had awoken, Isabella emerged from her room. The mansion was shrouded in quiet, almost oppressive stillness. As she wandered the long corridors, she felt an eerie mix of isolation and determination. Every echo of her footsteps reminded her of the choices made in desperation—and of the price she had paid. Outside her window, the city slowly came to life, its bustling energy in stark contrast to the stillness within the mansion’s walls. Isabella watched as the sun’s first light broke through the clouds, casting long shadows across the polished floors. In that quiet moment, she resolved that she would not let her fate be dictated solely by the terms of a contract. No matter how cold and calculated Alexander Kingston might be, she would find a way to assert her own will. She would reclaim the parts of herself that had been lost in the chaos of her family's downfall. But even as she clung to that promise, a gnawing fear persisted: What if the man who had signed away her future harbored secrets far darker than she could imagine? What if, beneath his impenetrable exterior, Alexander was capable of things that would shatter her fragile resolve? Her thoughts were interrupted by the soft chime of a door opening. A maid entered, her expression neutral as she set a tray on a nearby table. "Breakfast, Mrs. Kingston," the maid said simply, before departing as quietly as she had arrived. Sitting down at a long, elegantly set table in the mansion’s grand dining hall, Isabella tried to focus on the meal before her, though her mind wandered relentlessly to the contract and the uncertain future it promised. Each bite of food tasted of bitter resignation, and each sip of water reminded her of the price she had paid. Across the table, an empty chair stood as a constant reminder of Alexander’s absence—a man who seemed more a myth than a husband, his presence felt only in the echoes of promises and the chill of the morning air. As she ate, memories of her father and the life that had been taken from her surfaced unbidden. Her mind drifted to quiet afternoons spent in the study of Carter Holdings, where her father had once shared dreams of greatness and whispered secrets of business and honor. Those days were gone—lost to time and the relentless greed of a stepmother who had sacrificed everything for survival. With every passing moment, Isabella felt more determined to forge a path for herself. Yet the looming specter of her new life with Alexander Kingston was an ever-present shadow, a reminder that her sacrifices were only just beginning. She clutched the wedding ring on her finger as if it were a lifeline—a small, circular promise that somehow, against all odds, she might one day reclaim her happiness. --- Isabella’s Silent Resolve That afternoon, as the mansion bustled with the quiet efficiency of its staff, Isabella found herself wandering the halls alone. The grandeur of the place was undeniable—each room a testament to Alexander’s wealth and control—but for Isabella, it only deepened the sense of isolation. Every step she took echoed in the vast emptiness, each sound a reminder that she was now an outsider in a world that was not meant for her. In a quiet corner of the mansion, she discovered a small library. The room was filled with leather-bound books and ancient manuscripts, the air redolent with the scent of aged paper and secrets long kept. For a moment, Isabella allowed herself to be distracted by the beauty of the collection. She ran her fingers along the spines of the books, each title a silent witness to histories and dreams that had been captured within these walls. Here, at least, she could lose herself in thoughts that were not weighed down by the crushing reality of her marriage. Yet even in that sanctuary of literature, her mind returned to the contract. She thought of the cold signature, the finality of the ink, and the unyielding promise of a future spent under Alexander’s control. And she wondered: Could a man so ruthless ever truly change? Could there be a flicker of humanity behind the impenetrable façade of a billionaire who had built his empire on power and fear? Isabella resolved that she would find out. If she were to live under these conditions, she would need to know every detail about the man who now shared her destiny. But for now, she kept those thoughts to herself, burying them beneath layers of quiet determination. As dusk fell over the city, casting long shadows across the mansion’s marble floors, Isabella returned to her room. The day had been long and filled with a silent, persistent sorrow—a reminder of all that had been lost and all that was yet to be fought for. She sat at her vanity, gazing at her reflection in the mirror. In her eyes, there was a spark—a glimmer of defiance and hope that refused to be extinguished, no matter how bleak the circumstances. "One day, I'll reclaim my life," she whispered to the silent room. "And I won't let anyone, not even you, Alexander, dictate my fate." That promise, spoken softly into the darkness, was both a vow and a rebellion—a small beacon of resistance in a world ruled by contracts and cold ambition.The Kingston estate was beautiful, but it felt nothing like home. Isabella sat at the edge of the massive bed, staring at the luxurious room that now belonged to her. The events of the past twenty-four hours still felt surreal. Married. To a man she barely knew. A man who was supposed to marry her stepsister. And yet, here she was. Isabella Kingston. Her fingers ran over the smooth gold band on her finger. It felt foreign, like a shackle rather than a promise. A soft knock on the door made her snap out of her thoughts. The door creaked open, and the head maid entered. "Good morning, Mrs. Kingston," the woman greeted, her voice polite but devoid of warmth. "Mr. Kingston has requested you join him for breakfast." Requested. It wasn’t a question. It was an order. Isabella swallowed her pride and nodded. "Lead the way." The halls of the mansion were eerily quiet as she followed the maid through the house. Sunlight streamed in through the tall windows, illuminating the marble floo
The pounding of footsteps in the hallway sent a jolt of adrenaline through Isabella’s veins. Someone was coming. Not Jason’s men. Not Alexander’s allies. Something worse. Jason cursed under his breath. “You want to save him?” He glanced at Isabella before nodding toward the door. “Then move.” Alexander let out a ragged breath, his free hand pressing against the wound in his side. “We don’t have time for this,” he gritted out. Isabella’s grip on the gun remained firm, but for the first time, uncertainty crept into her thoughts. Jason had just shot Alexander—but now he was helping him? Why? She had no time to dwell on it. The door handle rattled. “Move!” Jason hissed. Isabella didn’t need to be told twice. She bolted toward Alexander, slipping her arm around his waist just as Jason did the same on the other side. The moment her hand brushed Alexander’s blood-soaked shirt, reality slammed into her. He was hurt. Badly. Jason reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun
The moment the gunfire outside stopped, a heavy silence filled the air. Isabella pressed herself against the wall, her breath uneven. She could hear footsteps crunching against dead leaves, slow and measured, like a predator closing in on its prey. Jason gripped his wounded arm, his gun still raised despite the blood seeping through his shirt. His face was pale, but his blue eyes were sharp. “They’re waiting,” he muttered. “Trying to make us panic.”Isabella tightened her grip on her weapon. “They don’t need to. We’re already out of options.” Alexander groaned from the couch, his face slick with sweat. His breathing was shallow, and she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. He wouldn’t last much longer. Jason cursed under his breath. “We need to get out of here. Fast.” “Through where?” Isabella hissed. “Front door’s a kill zone. Windows are covered.” Jason’s jaw clenched. He turned his head slightly, listening.Then— A slow clap echoed from outside. “Well, well,”
The weight of Dante’s words followed Isabella long after she left his office."Think carefully about whose side you’re on."The cryptic warning gnawed at her, sending her mind into a storm of doubts. She had spent years surviving on instinct, but now, for the first time, she wasn’t sure who the enemy really was.As she walked through the dimly lit hallways of the safe house, her fingers twitched at her sides. Dante wasn’t a man to throw around empty threats. He knew something.The question was—what?But as she reached the door, something else caught her attention.Muffled voices.Low. Tense.She paused, pressing her ear against the door.Jason’s voice—sharp, but controlled. "You think I meant to shoot you?"A pause. Then Alexander’s voice, quieter but laced with steel. "You hesitated. That’s what got me shot."Jason scoffed. "I hesitated because I didn’t know who the hell to trust in that moment."Alexander let out a humorless chuckle. "Right. And now?"Silence.Then Jason muttered, "
The tension in the air was suffocating. Isabella’s pulse hammered in her ears, and her breath came in shallow, panicked gasps. Her hands were still clenched around the gun, though she no longer felt its weight—only the suffocating feeling that had settled in her chest. Raúl’s words echoed in her mind, each one slicing deeper than the last. “He lied to you, Isabella.” Her father? Lied? She couldn’t process it—couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. The truth felt like an explosion, like a bomb waiting to tear apart everything she knew. “About who really pulled the trigger.” For a split second, everything went still. The room felt as if it was closing in on her. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of confusion and horror. Her father was the one who had kept her safe from the dangerous world outside, from the truth. But why had he never told her? Why had he shielded her from the truth? A cold sweat broke out on her skin as memories she’d pushed deep into her subconscious came ru
The night air was thick with tension as Isabella stood in the center of Alexander’s hidden mansion, her heart pounding against her ribs. Jason’s arrival had confirmed what she feared—Dante’s disappearance wasn’t random. It was calculated. And whoever took him wanted to send a message. But that wasn’t the only thing haunting her. Her father’s sins were creeping into the light, forcing her to face a past she never understood. Alexander had known the truth all along. He had married her with secrets buried deep beneath his cold exterior, and now, she was tangled in a world where trust was a luxury she could no longer afford. Alexander paced the room, his presence commanding, his sharp mind already calculating their next move. His men stood around him like shadows—Marcus, Damien, and Nikolai—all waiting for orders. Jason crossed his arms, eyes locked onto Alex. “We need to move fast. If James Michelle was Dante’s last contact, then he’s already a target. If Callum gets to him first
The taste of Alexander’s kiss still lingered on Isabella’s lips, but the weight of Moretti’s words crushed her like a storm. "You have no idea who your husband really is." The sentence echoed in her mind, unraveling everything she thought she knew. Her heart pounded as she searched Alexander’s face for any flicker of emotion, any denial—but there was none. Just calculated silence. “You built your empire by taking Moretti’s,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “Is that true?” Alexander’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t deny it. Her stomach twisted. “Then tell me, Alexander. Did you marry me to protect me… or to keep me under control?” For a fleeting moment, something flickered in his gaze—something raw, unguarded. But just as quickly, it was gone. “I married you,” he said carefully, his voice unreadable, “because it was the only way to ensure your safety.” Her pulse quickened. “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the only answer you’re getting.” Before she could p
Callum’s words sliced through the air like a blade, leaving behind a suffocating silence. Isabella’s breath caught. If Adrian Costa wasn’t after her, then who? Alexander’s grip on his gun tightened, his voice razor-sharp. “Talk.” Callum smirked, rolling his shoulders despite the blood caked on his face. “Now, Kingston, you know me better than that. I never give something for nothing.” Jason cocked his gun and pressed it hard against Callum’s skull. “Then let’s make it nothing.” Callum chuckled, completely unfazed. “Please. If you were going to kill me, you’d have done it already.” His bruised gaze flickered toward Isabella, his lips curling slightly. That look.Like he knew something she didn’t. She hated it. Alexander moved swiftly, dangerously, his presence thick with warning. “Who is Adrian going after?” Callum sighed, dragging it out before his smirk deepened. “He’s after your brother.” The world shifted. Alexander froze. His expression was unreadable,
Jason sat in the passenger seat, his muscles coiled with tension as Alexander tore through the streets, the car’s tires screeching against the asphalt. The city lights blurred past them in streaks of neon, but neither man was paying attention to the outside world. Inside the car, the air was thick with unspoken accusations, the weight of failure pressing down on them both. Alexander’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, knuckles turning white. His jaw was set, his eyes dark with barely restrained fury. The cold glow from the dashboard illuminated the sharp angles of his face, making him look even more dangerous than usual. Jason knew better than to speak first. But Alexander wasn’t the type to let things go. “You want to tell me what the hell happened back there?” His voice was low, deceptively calm, the kind of calm that came before a storm. Jason exhaled through his nose, keeping his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “I already told you. He escaped.” A muscle ticked in Alexan
Jason sat in the passenger seat, his muscles coiled with tension as Alexander tore through the streets, the car’s tires screeching against the asphalt. The city lights blurred past them in streaks of neon, but neither man was paying attention to the outside world. Inside the car, the air was thick with unspoken accusations, the weight of failure pressing down on them both. Alexander’s grip on the steering wheel was tight, knuckles turning white. His jaw was set, his eyes dark with barely restrained fury. The cold glow from the dashboard illuminated the sharp angles of his face, making him look even more dangerous than usual. Jason knew better than to speak first. But Alexander wasn’t the type to let things go. “You want to tell me what the hell happened back there?” His voice was low, deceptively calm, the kind of calm that came before a storm. Jason exhaled through his nose, keeping his gaze fixed on the road ahead. “I already told you. He escaped.” A muscle ticked in Alexa
The city lay in eerie silence, the glow of streetlights casting long shadows over the empty roads. A convoy of black SUVs moved like specters through the darkness, headlights off, engines humming low. The air inside the lead vehicle was thick with tension, the kind that settled deep in the bones before a storm. Alexander’s hands gripped the steering wheel with quiet intensity, his jaw clenched as he stared ahead. Tonight, it ended. No more chasing shadows, no more whispers leading to dead ends. Vincent was within reach. Jason sat in the passenger seat, methodically checking his gun for the third time in ten minutes. The soft click of the magazine sliding into place barely registered over the pounding in Alexander’s head. “We can’t afford any mistakes,” Jason muttered, eyes scanning the darkened streets. “If Vincent slips away again—” “He won’t.” Alexander’s voice was razor-sharp, his certainty unshaken. He didn’t need to look at Jason to know they shared the same unspoken vow—fa
The night air inside the ruined safe house was suffocating. The metallic scent of blood clung to the walls, seeping into everything like a sickness that refused to fade. The once-secure hideout was now a battlefield marked by bullet holes, shattered glass, and bodies left as a warning. The dim lighting flickered overhead, casting eerie shadows across the destruction. Alexander stood in the center of the wreckage, his fingers curled into fists at his sides. His blue eyes, normally alight with sharp intelligence, were cold and unreadable. He surveyed the carnage left in Vincent Blackwell’s wake—the blood staining the wooden floor, the overturned furniture, the unmistakable signs of a struggle that had ended in death. This wasn’t just an attack. It was a message. And Alexander had received it loud and clear. A slow exhale escaped him, controlled but lethal in its quietness. This was an act of war. And he wasn’t going to wait for another ambush. “We’re leaving.” His voice cut
The jet’s wheels screeched against the tarmac, the landing smooth but offering no sense of relief. The silence that had clung to them in the air remained thick even as the engines whined down. The cabin was dimly lit, but there was no mistaking the tension carved into each of their faces. Isabella’s nails dug into her palms as she stared at the floor, willing the unease in her stomach to settle. It didn’t. Something felt off. Alexander was the first to move, his gaze hard and calculating as he glanced at each of them before standing. “We don’t waste time. Get ready.” His voice was calm, but there was a distinct sharpness beneath it—a warning unspoken yet understood. Jason, usually the one to crack a joke, remained uncharacteristically silent, his green eyes glinting with an unreadable emotion. He rolled his shoulders, the tension never leaving. Dante was much the same, though his fingers twitched against his knee, a sure sign of restrained frustration. Charlotte, small and fragil
The hum of the jet engines filled the cabin, steady and unbroken, but the silence inside was anything but peaceful. It was heavy. Suffocating. A silence that wasn’t relief, but exhaustion—the kind that followed a battle, not because it was over, but because they knew another one was coming. Isabella sat by the window, her arms folded tightly across her chest. Her fingers gripped the fabric of her jacket as if grounding herself, as if she could squeeze out the tension that had wrapped around her spine. She should have felt something. Relief, perhaps. Moretti was dead. Vargas was nothing more than a forgotten corpse in Madrid. Charlotte was safe. And yet, her stomach was twisted in knots, because she knew—some wars didn’t end when the last bullet was fired. Some wars were just beginning. Across from her, Charlotte sat wrapped in a blanket, her pale fingers barely visible beneath the folds. Her face was gaunt, exhaustion clear in the shadows beneath her eyes. She hadn’t spoken much
The air inside the ballroom was thick with tension, a suffocating weight pressing against Isabella’s chest. The chandeliers above cast golden light over the opulent hall, their crystals shimmering like fragile stars. Laughter and music filled the space, but beneath the illusion of elegance, danger lurked. She could feel him watching her. Vargas. His gaze seared into her back, a silent challenge, a taunt that sent a ripple of unease through her spine. He knew. But she didn’t react—not yet. Instead, she let her fingers trail along the stem of her champagne flute, the picture of poised indifference. She had already mapped out the exits, counted the guards, memorized every possible escape route. The plan was simple. In and out. No complications. Then Alexander’s voice came low through her earpiece. “We need to move now.” Her grip on the glass tightened slightly. Across the room, Dante stood near the grand staircase, his stance too rigid, too controlled. He sensed it, too.
The war room felt suffocating despite its size. The air was thick with tension, the weight of what lay ahead pressing down on them like an iron grip. Isabella stood at the head of the table, her fingers splayed against the blueprint of Vasquez’s airstrip. A fortress. Steel gates. Surveillance cameras. Armed guards stationed at every vulnerable entry point. A single mistake could cost them everything. But hesitation? That would cost them even more. "We strike at 0200," she said, her voice sharp, decisive. "Vasquez is overseeing a weapons deal in the hangar. That’s our window." Jason leaned back in his chair, flipping his knife between his fingers. A smirk played at his lips. "Love the confidence, Princess, but Vasquez has numbers. We don’t." "We don’t need numbers," Isabella shot back. "We need precision." Alexander stood near the window, arms crossed, his blue eyes unreadable. "And if this goes wrong?" She met his gaze, unwavering. "Then we don’t come back." A
The air in Alexander’s office was suffocating. Elias Moretti sat tied to a chair, his once-impeccable suit stained with blood, his breathing heavy. He should have been terrified, but instead, that damned smirk still lingered on his lips. Across from him, Isabella stood tall, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. The woman who had once hesitated was gone. And Moretti could see it. "You think you have control here, don’t you?" His voice was hoarse, but the amusement remained. Isabella leaned in slightly, her eyes locked onto his. "No, Moretti. I know I do." The smirk faltered. From the corner, Callum chuckled, still handcuffed but looking far too entertained. "I have to admit, sweetheart, this is a good look on you." She didn’t even spare him a glance. "Shut up, Callum." Jason snickered. "That’s probably the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to him." Damien flicked open a knife, his grin lazy. "Shame he never takes the hint." Alexander stood near the doorway, arms c